Solace
by hyacinthian
Summary: Alcohol became the sanctuary for him that sleep was not. Especially tonight. He needed to forget. And all sleep would do was make him remember.


Title: Solace

Author: ScarlettMithruiel

Classification: A

Rating: T

Disclaimer: CSI doesn't belong to me. And neither does Nick Stokes. :snaps fingers: Damn.

Author's Note: This was a fic written to kind of streamline me back into angst. I've been writing nothing but fluff lately and it's been suffocating. I needed to write something dark, and this was it. Because I haven't been writing angst for a while, excuse it if it's bad. And thanks very much to Mel, my favorite Australian, who helped me to fix it. Enjoy!

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The lounge was dimly lit. Angular shadows protruded on his face and it made him seem like a shadow of a man. The bar was stereotypical. Cigarette smoke infiltrated the air, and the familiar clink of billiard balls occurred every so often. A dark-haired man sat at the far left bar stool. He had been drinking vodka shots as fast as the bartender could pour them, but his rate had slowed within the last hour and a half. It was his anniversary. He snorted in the bar, certain that no one could hear him over the boisterous heavy metal playing in the background. His anniversary. Right. He wondered where she was at the moment. Did she remember what she did? Did she care? Or did she just chalk it up to another sexual encounter that also just happened to qualify as statutory rape? He ordered another shot, downing it just as quickly, savoring the burning sensation as it slid down his throat.

The memories began to infiltrate his mind, despite all the alcohol he had been ingested. He envisioned them first as a gray haze, easily making its way over his brain. And then it mutated. It turned into an axe murderer, hacking away at his brain. His temple responded to this with enthusiasm, pulsing painfully at each chop. He wondered if this was how people became insane.

The details began to make themselves known to him again. The dark hue of the blue carpet, the light hue of the beige ceiling. The contrast of her cherry red nails to her pale skin. He remembered the tone of her voice, the way it slid from one note to another without so much as a crack. It was a slur, really. Wasn't that what it was called? A slur? He remembered how she had beckoned him. He had been so trusting, so innocent, so naïve. What could he expect?

He threw his money down on the counter and headed out the door. He walked confidently. Inside, he felt like he was going to die. His head pounded louder to accompany his pain. He hailed a taxi and headed home. He barely managed to stumble up the number of flights up to his apartment. He walked in and fell onto the couch. He needed sleep. He needed to forget. Would either come? Or would they leave him there? That's what they had done to him before. He had lain there, hollow, alone, and in pain, and they had provided no solace, no sanctuary. That was when he began to hate sleep. And he began to work. _When you work, you can only focus on your work. And the pain will never return to you. _That was his logic.

But when he had arrived home, exhaustion didn't have the strength to override that mechanism in him. It could not override the defense mechanism in him, instilled when he was a boy. _Sleep and she'll come back. Sleep and she'll come back. _It repeated in his head like a death mantra, and he could not avoid it. So he stayed up, and watched the Discovery Channel, and he learned more about birds than he wanted to in his lifetime.

At first, his colleagues had commented on his appearance. He looked gaunt, they said. And there were too many dark circles beneath his eyes. He didn't listen to them, and within time, those were just parts of him that faded into his personality. _Oh, you haven't met Nick yet? He's the Texan over there who works extremely hard, and never sleeps. He'll never change. _Insert a mindless giggle common to secretaries, and that would probably be an introduction speech at the Lab.

Sleep, aided by the haze of alcohol, began to take over him. He sighed contentedly. He had not felt this particular feeling in years. He always felt well when sleep began to exercise its old claws on him. The feeling felt so foreign, and yet, he welcomed it. As soon as his eyes shut, they taunted him. There she was again. Julie Macintosh, the babysitter. And all the memories, the vivid images, would replay in his mind again. And he would wake up, and find solace in the Discovery Channel. Solace that his own bed could not provide.

"_You're my little cowboy, aren't you, Nicky?" _And the tears would scald as they slowly glided their way down his cheek. And he would cry, soundlessly, as he had done when she had locked him in the linen closet at night, being so completely scared of the dark that he was. And then, she had unlocked the door, and ran to her welcoming arms, where she used him as a sex toy. _"You're my little cowboy." _Maybe that was why he had hightailed it out of Texas as soon as he could.

And then, he leapt up from his couch, and began to scrounge through his kitchen cabinets. Where was his bourbon? He had to watch himself. He had to be careful that he didn't become an alcoholic. Yet the cautious side of him argued. _I don't drink this much every day. I only drink today. Today. _Yes, today was a day worth commemorating with a lasting hangover tomorrow. And, successfully locating his bourbon, he grasped the bottle by the neck, and poured the burning liquid straight into his mouth. No need for shot glasses he'd have to clean up later.

Solace. That was what he needed. Solace and silence. He supposed that was why Sara and he were such good friends. She knew when to speak and when to be silent, as did he. They understood each other. They didn't know backgrounds, but they understood. The same things happened. He poured some more bourbon into his mouth. The throbbing in his head began to fade into the background. And the images in his mind, the vivid images, of what had happened, began to blur. This was the kind of solace he needed. And the tears began to fall onto his cheeks, burning a trail down his face as his own words ran through his head. _There are some people you're supposed to be able to trust. _And he shut his eyes and let the darkness overwhelm him.


End file.
